Tm verse. 56 hours
Time moved slowly as Dylan waited for word on his father. Jarvis tried to keep him as up to date as possible. Pepper went to Malibu to try and help bring him back. Natasha left to do her own search and assist the SHIELD search. Dylan roamed the halls of the Long Island home.
Hilary, Stephen and Christoph came over to stay with him and his mother. No one pushed him to talk. Instead, they tried to get him to eat. To sleep. No one pointed out that he kept obsessively dumping out the coffee when it went cold only to make a new pot. He'd promised the coffee would be on when his father got home. Dylan wasn't going to break a promise.
When they tried to get him to sleep, he'd wind up in Tony's room. Sitting on his father's bed, aimlessly flipping through television channels, sleep wasn't an option. The room smelled like him. It helped and it hurt. Because all it did was drive the point home that Tony had yet to be found.
He'd eat, but not very well. It was a comfort to have his mother there. To cook and to soothe in the way only mother's could. She'd fixed his hair like he asked, and she seemed to know what he needed to hear.
Give your uncle and the others time, Dylan. Your father is a survivor, Baby. Just give it time.
Time kept moving so slowly. He'd look at the clock, and it seemed not to match with the time that was ticking off in his head.
The letter he'd read in Bermuda had long been memorized. His father's last words he'd planned to give to Dylan after he was gone. Dylan didn't want his father's last words. He wanted his dad.
He needed his dad.
The closet held his expensive suits. All those things that screamed Stark. Dylan ended up in that giant closet at hour forty-eight. He'd only meant to look in there. To inhale the familiar scent. To pick out something for his father when he returned home. Instead he'd sat down inside it, eyes closed, head resting against the wall, and he prayed.
Prayed for word. For a call from his dad. For news that was good. Not any news, no. He didn't want to be notified that they'd found him, but that he was still gone. He needed to hear that Tony had been found, and he was on his way home.
It was hour fifty before he forced himself to climb out of the closet.
In his mind he wondered if he would have hidden there when he was a child if he'd known Tony then. Would he have played hide and seek and waited for Tony to find him? This felt like the world's worst game of hide and seek.
Hilary held his hand on hour fifty-two. When Dylan was beginning to truly fray around the edges. He'd sat in front of one of his father's favorite cars, and he'd tried to get a grip on tears that threatened to fall from lack of sleep and fear. She'd sat next to him, held his hand, and wordlessly they waited. It wasn't until he knew it was time to dump the coffee and make a new pot that they got up and went back inside.
His phone went off on hour fifty-six to tell him that his uncle had found him. He'd be bringing him home.
Home.
He was alright. Alive at least. He'd be coming home.
Dylan Elliot had resisted the urge to call back and demand to hear his father's voice with his own ears. He trusted his uncle, and he'd see Tony soon.
The worry of the last few days caught up with him instantly. He swayed on his feet as his stomach seemed to lurch. Too much caffeine, not enough food and sleep. How did Tony do this so often? Dylan felt older on just a few days of this lifestyle.
He'd excused himself to go freshen up. It was intended for him to take a moment, take a shower, and then go back down stairs. Instead he barely made it to the toilet before he threw up violently. It would be awhile before he could stomach coffee again.
Once he was done, he brushed his teeth and forced himself into the shower.
Fifty-six hours had passed, and now Tony was in the process of getting home.
It was under the protection of the shower and the words of reassurance this ordeal was close to being over that he finally allowed the tears to fall. At least they were tears of relief instead of the tears he'd been terrified would come if he had to bury his father.
Hilary, Stephen and Christoph came over to stay with him and his mother. No one pushed him to talk. Instead, they tried to get him to eat. To sleep. No one pointed out that he kept obsessively dumping out the coffee when it went cold only to make a new pot. He'd promised the coffee would be on when his father got home. Dylan wasn't going to break a promise.
When they tried to get him to sleep, he'd wind up in Tony's room. Sitting on his father's bed, aimlessly flipping through television channels, sleep wasn't an option. The room smelled like him. It helped and it hurt. Because all it did was drive the point home that Tony had yet to be found.
He'd eat, but not very well. It was a comfort to have his mother there. To cook and to soothe in the way only mother's could. She'd fixed his hair like he asked, and she seemed to know what he needed to hear.
Give your uncle and the others time, Dylan. Your father is a survivor, Baby. Just give it time.
Time kept moving so slowly. He'd look at the clock, and it seemed not to match with the time that was ticking off in his head.
The letter he'd read in Bermuda had long been memorized. His father's last words he'd planned to give to Dylan after he was gone. Dylan didn't want his father's last words. He wanted his dad.
He needed his dad.
The closet held his expensive suits. All those things that screamed Stark. Dylan ended up in that giant closet at hour forty-eight. He'd only meant to look in there. To inhale the familiar scent. To pick out something for his father when he returned home. Instead he'd sat down inside it, eyes closed, head resting against the wall, and he prayed.
Prayed for word. For a call from his dad. For news that was good. Not any news, no. He didn't want to be notified that they'd found him, but that he was still gone. He needed to hear that Tony had been found, and he was on his way home.
It was hour fifty before he forced himself to climb out of the closet.
In his mind he wondered if he would have hidden there when he was a child if he'd known Tony then. Would he have played hide and seek and waited for Tony to find him? This felt like the world's worst game of hide and seek.
Hilary held his hand on hour fifty-two. When Dylan was beginning to truly fray around the edges. He'd sat in front of one of his father's favorite cars, and he'd tried to get a grip on tears that threatened to fall from lack of sleep and fear. She'd sat next to him, held his hand, and wordlessly they waited. It wasn't until he knew it was time to dump the coffee and make a new pot that they got up and went back inside.
His phone went off on hour fifty-six to tell him that his uncle had found him. He'd be bringing him home.
Home.
He was alright. Alive at least. He'd be coming home.
Dylan Elliot had resisted the urge to call back and demand to hear his father's voice with his own ears. He trusted his uncle, and he'd see Tony soon.
The worry of the last few days caught up with him instantly. He swayed on his feet as his stomach seemed to lurch. Too much caffeine, not enough food and sleep. How did Tony do this so often? Dylan felt older on just a few days of this lifestyle.
He'd excused himself to go freshen up. It was intended for him to take a moment, take a shower, and then go back down stairs. Instead he barely made it to the toilet before he threw up violently. It would be awhile before he could stomach coffee again.
Once he was done, he brushed his teeth and forced himself into the shower.
Fifty-six hours had passed, and now Tony was in the process of getting home.
It was under the protection of the shower and the words of reassurance this ordeal was close to being over that he finally allowed the tears to fall. At least they were tears of relief instead of the tears he'd been terrified would come if he had to bury his father.